Elegy for a Beagle Mutt
by Liz Rosenberg
1 What a season this is:
2 darkness making its sure descent, the motley rose
3 of drooping head, and wet leaves plastered everywhere
4 in bright chaotic paths. My leaping pup---
5 she of the quick pulse coiled
6 on the bed who slept in outlandish,
7 graceful twists of the neck,
8 shook by the door, lay dripping on the porch,
9 broke the spines of rabbits and squirrels,
10 begged at every table, that last morning
11 rose from the foot of the bed
12 thrusting her jaw into my face to stare:
13 stern, puzzled, forgiving glance, crushed
14 under a school bus, gone.
15 The sprawl of bones with pomp and grief
16 is laid to rest beneath a rusty tree---
17 and still I see her low shape moving
18 cautiously through every raining bush
19 or flashing under weeds as flaps of newspaper blow by.
20 If I had been out walking,
21 if I had thrown myself into her childish play,
22 she who skittered and obeyed could have led me,
23 licking the hand of every passing soul, and pulled me
24 willy-nilly through the final gate. Now the corpse commands
25 and I stay here, reminded of the Buddhist saint
26 who waited at the gates of heaven
27 ten thousand years with his faithful dog, till both
28 were permitted in. Lithe dancer, I am reeling on a planet
29 gone to dark moods and imbalance, silent and unsafe,
30 imagining your collar of bones hooked small
31 under my fist---wait for me!
[from The Fire Music (1986): University of Pittsburgh Press]
Copyright © 1986, Liz Rosenberg.
Reproduced for personal use only: do not circulate.